The Grand Hotel: A Novel

by Scott Kenemore

Genres: Horror

Synopsis

Welcome to the hotel where nobody checks out.

When a desk clerk welcomes a group of tourists into his mysterious and crumbling hotel, the last thing he expects is that a lone girl on his tour may hold the power to unravel the hidden mystery that has lain for untold centuries within the structure’s walls.

The Grand Hotel is a horror novel by esteemed bestselling author Scott Kenemore (Zombie, Ohio) that takes the reader on a thrilling ride through an interconnected series of stories narrated by the desk clerk and the residents of the hotel itself. And while it is not known whether or not the desk clerk is actually the devil incarnate, it is strange that so many visitors who come for a tour of the hotel have a way of never leaving.

As the narrator takes you deeper and deeper into the heart of the hotel, secrets that have been hiding for aeons begin to show themselves. Although he is quite prepared for this experience, there is some question as to whether or not the rest of the world shares this readiness.

Kenemore’s incredible style and originality carry The Grand Hotel to places most people only see in their nightmares. And while we don’t know all of the secrets that lie within the Grand Hotel, we know that the person who does hold that knowledge puts fear into the narrator himself—a thought that ought to terrify everyone.

Skyhorse Publishing, under our Night Shade and Talos imprints, is proud to publish a broad range of titles for readers interested in science fiction (space opera, time travel, hard SF, alien invasion, near-future dystopia), fantasy (grimdark, sword and sorcery, contemporary urban fantasy, steampunk, alternative history), and horror (zombies, vampires, and the occult and supernatural), and much more. While not every title we publish becomes a New York Times bestseller, a national bestseller, or a Hugo or Nebula award-winner, we are committed to publishing quality books from a diverse group of authors.

 

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Release date: October 14, 2014

Publisher: Talos

Print pages: 378

Sample

The Grand Hotel lies at the end of a desolate, mist-shrouded street.

The columns that frame its entrance have old and peeling plaster. The crenulations along the walls are covered in ancient ivy, most of it dead. Filament still burns in the copper fixtures above the door, but the resulting glow casts little light. Some of the windows are broken. All of them are dark.

Visitors creep inside tentatively, unsure what to make of the place. They are a nervous bunch . . . intrigued, but unaccustomed to trespassing. (How long have they stood outside, daring one another to go in? I often have difficulty telling. Time has a way of passing strangely for me.) The visitors wonder aloud if the building is abandoned. Some clearly fear discovering vagabonds squatting within its crumbling lobby. Others expect only mice and rats. But certainly—all of them feel quite sure—this place cannot be a functioning hotel.

It is my job to disabuse them of that notion.

When I look up from my desk, it often gives them a start. I keep the lights rather dim, you see, which tends to render me quite invisible. It is not uncommon for my guests to gasp or even, occasionally, scream when I finally raise my head. (Though he remained silent, I once had a grown man faint dead away.)

Yet after this initial shock, my countenance usually reassures them. I smile broadly and lift my brow. My demeanor projects propriety and taste. I have seldom been called “handsome,” but some have said my features confer feelings of trustworthiness—a notion which pleases me inordinately.

“Welcome, welcome,” I say to them. “I’m sorry for giving you a fright.”

This is not true.

“Oh, we didn’t see you there!” they will say, some still gasping in surprise. “What is this place?”

“Ahh, so you are tourists, then?” I inquire.

They nod. Of course they are. They always are.

“Are you in town for the culinary festival?” I wonder aloud. “Or the museum opening, or—yes, of course—the equinoctial celebration?”

Oh, they wonder. Was there some sort of celebration?

I smile silently, divulging nothing.

“You have come to the Grand Hotel,” I inform them. “The building may not look like much to seasoned travelers such as yourselves, but I assure you, in its heyday this was a remarkable place to be. To see and be seen, as they say. Kings and queens have stayed here. Presidents and Prime Ministers from countries all around the world—including, I believe, some of your own—have sequestered themselves within these walls. We’ve had film stars, champion sportsmen, four-star generals, top scientific minds. . . . The history of the Grand Hotel is really quite remarkable.”

At this point, braver members of the party will venture a query as to the nature of my position. Am I a security guard, keeping watch over the sleeping structure? A docent? Or even a tour-guide? (Perhaps an official one—licensed through the city tourism office—or perhaps an unofficial one . . . working for tips, thankyouverymuch.)

Here, I must disappoint and astound them in the same breath.

“No,” I say softly. “I manage the front desk.”

Manage the front desk? (I can almost hear the gears turning inside their thick skulls.) The front desk of the hotel? Then that would mean . . .

“Oh, yes,” I clarify. “The hotel is fully operational. My shift covers the evening and overnight hours. If you desire a room, I believe we just might have

 a vacancy.”

Here they will exchange a look.

“Let me see . . .” I say, consulting the ratty, timeworn ledger in front of me. “Here we are, then. The Honeymoon Suite is available, I see . . . though that might not suit a mixed group such as your own. There are also two single rooms, but—drat—nothing with much of a view. Our western balconies get a remarkable panorama of the city at sunset. Unfortunately, all we have tonight are a pair of rooms facing east.”

Now I see them looking at me and whispering. Sizing me up. Who is this strange man? In the difficult light, his height, age, and even race are tricky to discern. (A safe guess might characterize him as tallish, middle-aged, and healthily tanned.) Moreover, they wonder, how can he project such pride—and exude such fastidiousness—amid the ruins of a dump that must be a hundred years past its prime?

I smile back at them, allowing the inspection.

About this time, a heavy tread in the hallway above betrays the presence of others. My visitors realize that I am not kidding about the vacancies. If only three rooms in this vast hotel are empty, then the rest of them must be . . .

“How many rooms does this place have?” a member of the group ventures.

“Aha!” I answer energetically. “That’s an interesting question, with a long and equally interesting answer. But it’s more fun if we make it a game, don’t you agree? How many do you think there are?”

Oh, the answers I have heard over the years. Oh the answers. Some are risibly low. Forty. Fifty. Sixty. (I think I once got a twelve.) Others hit the opposite end of the spectrum. Thousands of rooms. Millions. (These guesses usually come from children, true, but one does well never to underestimate a child.)

I like to conceal the actual figure for as long as possible. Sometimes I do not divulge it at all. But if the group is attentive and halfway respectful, I will usually let it slip.

“The Grand Hotel has exactly three hundred thirty-three and one thirds rooms.”

They smile politely, as if I have told an unfunny joke.

Sorry, I tell them. It’s no joke. 333.33.

“That’s silly,” one of them will say dismissively.

“How can you have a third of a room?” another usually asks. “Who stays in it? A third of a person?”

Here I open my mouth to speak, but always think better of it.

“You know . . . if you don’t have any pressing engagements this evening, you could join

me on a brief tour of the building,” I tell them. “I would be happy to conduct it personally. I’m not supposed to leave my post at the desk, but I’ve been here so long that management has grown rather flexible on that point.”

The adventurous members of the group are instantly interested. They cajole the more timid ones.

I simply stand and smile.

And wait.

It never takes very long.

 

Mr. Pence

Many nights, we are interrupted at this point by a delivery person—typically entering the lobby bearing a package; an arrangement of flowers, perhaps, or a prepared meal. For me, he is a familiar face (We exchange grins, and I always wish his wife well.).

When this interruption occurs, I will elect to begin the tour with Mr. Pence.

“Thank you,” I say, accepting the package. “Have a good evening.”

The deliveryman exits.

“We are in luck,” I announce to my guests. “We now have an occasion to visit one of the Grand Hotel’s oldest residents, Mr. Pence.”

They look at one another, but I can tell that most are already on board.

Cargo in hand, I conduct the group across the lobby, our feet making tik-tak noises on the tile (theirs rather more than mine) as we go a little deeper into the hotel. The visitors look around cautiously, examining the dim expanse of the inner lobby, with its high ceiling and exquisite latticework. Upon the north wall, an oil painting of one of the hotel’s founders frowns down at them (His eyes are remarkably lifelike and hypnotic. I have stared into them for hours on end.).

“How do you see in here?” a brave or impertinent member of the group may query. “It’s so dark!”

“Oh, there’s no trick to it,” I tell them. “I open my eyes and look around, just like anyone else.”

Of course, looking and seeing are not the same thing.

My answer is not usually satisfactory, and I frequently receive a “Harumph” in reply.

When we reach the red carpet of the royal staircase, I like to stop and let the vision before us sink in. I’ve worked here longer than I care to remember, and yet familiarity has not diminished its ability take my breath away.

The staircase really is magnificent. Ten feet wide with an elegant slope from left to right, it is one of our hotel’s most impressive features. Artists have come from halfway around the world to paint models ascending or descending this staircase. It is has been featured in the pages of architecture and design magazines (When money is no object, a builder suggests to his billionaire client a staircase modeled after the one in the Grand Hotel.).

Overweight members of the group—particularly Americans, it seems—have been known to sigh ponderously at the thought of all the steps before them.

“Come, come,” I say in these instances. “I climb it several times a day . . . seemingly with no ill effect.”

This line always earns me dirty looks.

We begin our trip up the silent, velveteen staircase. We become like ghosts, our footfalls muffled completely by the thick red carpet (Only the exaggerated breathing of the Americans gives any clue to our presence.).

“Is this the only staircase in the hotel?” one of the guests wants to know.

“Oh, by no means,” I respond. “But it is the grandest.”

Upon reaching the top, we see that the carpeting unfolds down the hallway in front of us. In fact, most of the hotel’s hallways are covered in this same cruor stain. Though it makes our individual footfalls silent, the odd floorboard nonetheless creaks in protest.

Past the staircase, we begin to encounter doors to private rooms. Each has a heavy brass knob and a single keyhole (Contemporary hostelries have converted to keycards, true, but at the Grand Hotel we find the old ways are best.). Some doors still have visible room numbers, yet many bear no demarcation at all. Mr. Pence’s room is the very

first. A good place to start.

My guests seem disappointed when I stop in front of Pence’s door. They were hoping to venture deeper, to see more.

“This is really as far as we’re going?” one of them asks.

“For the moment,” I reply.

Some members of the group look expectantly down the darkened hallway ahead of us, or else back down the staircase into the lobby below. They are nervous, curious, impatient.

I shift the delivery item to my left arm and prepare to knock on the door.

Here—most times, at least—I take a final, mischievous glance back at the visitors clustered behind me. After this, there is no going back.

When I knock on the door, it begins.

* * *

Knock, knock

“Oh Mister Pence,” I announce. “A delivery of flowers for you this evening. They’re lovely and fresh. Tulips, I think.”

Horticulture has never been my forte.

I gesture for the visitors to back up, then open the door.

The reaction of a group—upon beholding a sight like Mr. Pence—is usually a good indicator of how the rest of the evening will go. Some stand their ground, struggling to make sense of what they see. Some turn around and leave the hotel forthwith, stomping out wordlessly. Others have threatened to call for the authorities, or threatened me personally with violence!

There is no typical reaction.

As I throw wide the door to Mr. Pence’s quarters, we are greeted by the pleasant smells of aftershave mingled with fresh night air. Mr. Pence keeps his windows open at all hours. It is dim inside the room, but still brighter than I keep the lobby. After a moment, it seems laughable to my visitors that Mr. Pence keeps any light on at all.

He hasn’t any eyes. They have rotted out of his head. The flesh on his face is sunken and sallow. His teeth have gone to a dirty black, and his mouth hangs open in perpetual expectation. His hair is thin and his nails are long.

Mr. Pence reclines in his bed. He wears a nightshirt, and a blanket covers him to the waist. The linens are freshly cleaned, and there is no cadaverous smell.

“Mister Pence,” I say. “Here are your flowers. Shall I set them by the night stand, or . . . yes, here on the end table. I trust you are keeping well. Do let me know if I can shut your window. I haven’t forgotten how you like to

keep it cool.”

Mr. Pence smiles (as he always does) while I place the flowers on a table beside his bed.

“We have a tour group this evening,” I explain. “Perhaps you would care to say hello?”

Here, a moment of tension.

The group regards me, one another, and most assuredly the desiccated man in the bed before us. Will he move? Will he answer? The more fantastically inclined members of the party wait expectantly for the corpse to draw breath and wish us all a grand good evening.

I merely smile at Mr. Pence as he remains, quite unmoving, before us in his bed.

“This group will be around for a while,” I say to the body. “We are just beginning the tour. I will, then, leave you for the moment, Mister Pence. Do ring down if there is anything you require.”

I do not enjoy being regarded as a madman. However—as I back out of the room and quietly close the door—that can be the only meaning in the looks these visitors cast my way.

“How could you?” one of them often asks.

“I say, is this a put on?” another typically wonders. “Because it’s in very bad taste.”

Once, a loud American was the first to break the silence with a resounding “WHAT in the serious FUCK?” (O, how it made me laugh!)

I take a deep breath.

Accounting for Mr. Pence is tricky . . . but always can be done.

It makes me feel like a lawyer with a good case, but a particularly dull jury. I do my best to bring them around, one step at a time. They get there in the end . . . most of them.

“These are the facts about Mister Pence,” I say, turning to face the group. “He moved into the Grand Hotel fifty years ago, nearly to the day. Overnight, he became one of our most well-liked guests. All our long-term residents know and care for gentle, generous Mister Pence. As age came upon him, he did find himself significantly less mobile than he once might have been. We saw less and less of him around the hotel.”

“Was that before or after he died?” one visitor quips.

I ignore this impudent japery.

“Mister Pence always pays his bill on time, and has never once occasioned a complaint from another guest—a distinction that far too few of our permanent

residents can claim.”

“But he’s dead!” one of them will stammer (Usually, she is an overbearing, upper-class matron, tending to the portly side.).

I bite my lower lip and nod thoughtfully, indicating that I feel the visitor’s consternation.

“Whatever the state of Mister Pence’s body, he stays in regular communication with us,” I say carefully. “Each month, a check for the amount of his accumulated hotel bill is delivered to my desk. The funds from the bank account in his name are always adequate. Every piece of food brought to Mister Pence’s room manages to become eaten. Leave him a chicken leg at noon, and you will return to find it a bare bone by two-thirty. And though he does not use the telephone—or our somewhat dated intercom system—he regularly sends written notes to the front desk when there’s something he needs. We like to think of the Grand Hotel as providing the classic service of another era, you see? Whenever I can satisfy the requirements of one of my guests, I am always happy to oblige.”

“What kind of things does he ask for?” one guest wonders in a tone suggesting she still expects this to be a joke.

“Oh, you know,” I say, running my hands through my hair. “This and that. Trinkets and trifles mainly, but not always. Just last month he asked a model fire engine be requisitioned for his great-grandson’s birthday. I am proud to say I found the perfect one in a shop on Mott Street. Mister Pence was, from every indication, quite pleased with the result. In fact, he grinned at me all day.”

“But he’s dead!” one of them cries, waggling his head as if to shake off a pall I have cast.

“As you say,” I respond quietly.

At that moment there is a very loud creak from the floorboards behind them. Many in the group give a start (I do not. I could see what was coming . . . or rather, whom.).

The visitors turn to find a hunted-looking man in a high collared shirt approaching along the hallway. He is very thin and has a forehead full of wrinkles. His open mouth betrays blocky, gravestone teeth.

“Good evening,” he says in a hard-to-place accent.

“Good evening, James,” I return.

They regard him cautiously.

“Something from Mister Pence,” he says, proffering a handwritten note from within his coat. I accept it.

James then brushes past us, stalking down the royal staircase and disappearing into the dimness of the lobby beyond.

I glance at the note,

smile, and put it away. Then I look at my visitors. A moment before, many of them appeared as if they were thinking of leaving the hotel. Now they are curious once again.

“‘Ere, what’s that?” a British visitor says.

I wave the question away.

“No, seriously,” rejoins a teenage American. “Tell us.”

I point to the pocket where I have secreted the note, and raise my eyebrow to make sure I have heard them right. I have.

“Well . . . it is a note from Mister Pence,” I tell them.

“How can that be?” asks one.

“What’s it say?” asks another.

I remain perfectly still for a few moments. Then I bring the note back out of my pocket.

“It says thank you for the flowers. It also says tonight’s group is lovely, but observes that the young man in the off-yellow vest is a pickpocket who has removed my wallet.”

Everyone in the group glances at the man in the vest. He quietly looks at the floor.

“I had hoped to speak with him privately, you see,” I continue, lowering the note. “Yet, Mister Pence has forced my hand, has he not? Incidentally sir, I do hope you will return my property without further ado. As you’ll find shortly—if you haven’t already—it contains no money. The stitching, however, is immaculate, and it holds some sentimental value.”

The man in the vest returns my wallet without looking up from the carpet.

“Thank you,” I tell him. “No hard feelings.”

The rest of the group takes a moment to process what is happening. A few of them edge away from the pickpocket.

“Let me see that note,” a bold visitor says. I offer it willingly. The visitors crowd around and read over the shoulder of the one who holds it. They see that it says, more or less, exactly what I have described.

“How’d you do that?” one asks. “The man who gave you the note was outside of the room.”

“Are you in on this?” one of them asks the pickpocket. He is tempted to lie. I can see it on his face. I stare him down hard. After a moment under the weight of my gaze, he relents and admits we are not in collusion.

A kerfuffle breaks out amongst the visitors. They are not sure what is happening, or who is being straight with whom (For some reason, this is always paramount upon their minds.). Some members of the group clearly feel uncomfortable and violated. They accuse me of trying to deceive or rob them (The very idea! When, of course, it is I who has most lately had his wallet pilfered.).

It is time for me to bring out—as they say—the big guns.

“Perhaps then, we should stop the tour here,” I say, raising my hands like a shopkeeper who is tired of haggling with a customer. “If I have upset or offended any of you, I am truly sorry. It was never my intention. If I have made you uncomfortable somehow, then I apologize for that too. Yes. Yes, I do believe we ought to conclude the tour now. We ought to go no deeper inside the Grand Hotel.”

They fall silent. Some look bashful. Others, apologetic.

“But I am not a liar!” I say loudly and dramatically. “I have at no time lied to you. Nothing I have shown you or told you has been untrue in any way. Even so . . . I can accept that the Grand Hotel may be a bit . . . much for some.”

I slump my shoulders wearily, looking crestfallen and disappointed in them (I must bite my tongue to avoid smiling. In truth, I am nearly trembling with pleasure. Sometimes I actually do tremble, but the group mistakes this for shudders of despondence, which works out just fine.).

“We’re sorry,” a spokesman—or woman—will invariably declaim. “We didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, sir. We would very much like to see the rest of the hotel.”

“Do you. . . . Do you really mean that?” I ask, knowing full well that they do.

“Oh yes,” they agree in a chorus.

I shrug to indicate that, thus united, there is little I can do to resist them.

I straighten my posture, allow a smile to return to my lips, and lead the group deeper inside. ...